Survivor
by Quantumfour
Summary: Harry starts out in Azkaban, but escapes and gains new powers. Not your typical 'overpowered Harry' fic. I wanted to do something original, and I'm not sure I got there, but I'm sorta closer than most. Teen for now, may go up. May not. WIP
1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter woke, the meager candle barely illuminating his cell, for the fifteen year old fledgling wizard was in prison. However this was not just any prison, this was Azkaban, the single most feared place in the wizarding world, home of the dementors, where people lost all semblance of sanity in a few short months. Harry Potter had always been a survivor, surviving the fatal Avada Kedavra curse, surviving his abusive Aunt and Uncle for years, then surviving years of traitors, werewolves, basilisks, Voldemort's resurrection, and corrupt Ministry workers. Yes, Harry was a survivor, and he was now surviving Azkaban.

A presence in his cell caused him to start, but he soon realized it was only the rats who were his only companions, something he found ironic, due to his past history with Peter Pettigrew. However, it seemed the day's excitement was not over, and he heard his meal approaching, carried by a dementor. As always, he relived the trial which had condemned him to spend life behind bars.

Flashback

Harry was sitting in his bedroom located at number four Privet Drive, sipping the tea he had managed to filch from Petunia's kettle. It was an herbal brew and he found it pleasant and soothing. Morning had just risen, and the sun shone through his window happily; it was a day to rejoice in. Setting his tea cup back on the saucer, he absently heard a knock at the front door, not really paying attention to the occurrence, but rather he started planning his day. Deciding he would don his worn trainers, he thought to make a journey to the local park so he could sit under the cool shade of the weeping willows which grew there.

He had just finished tugging them on when a loud crash was heard from behind. He jumped as his door was reduced to splinters and cloaked figures stormed through the door, taking up positions around the room, wands all trained on him. His own wand placed in his trunk which was under the stairs, he was forced to raise his hands in a submissive gesture. The seeming leader (he wore embroidered robes) then called out to him, alerting Harry he was under arrest for the murder or a Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, as well as their young son, and commanding that Harry follow him to captivity. Harry wondered if something had indeed happened to the Dursleys, the rational part of his brain screaming that _someone_ must have let them in, as there were wards on the house, so the Dursleys must still have been intact when the aurors, as he now knew them to be, arrived.

Following them downstairs, he turned to see three flashes of green light leave the aurors' wands, instantly killing three bound Dursleys. His eyes widened in shock at the spectacle as he was hit from behind with a great force, rendering him unconscious.

When he came to he was bound to a chair in the center of an amphitheater, hundreds of people, familiar and not, littering the surrounding seating. As he looked up, dozens of camera flashes shot through his vision, instantly alerting him of the searing pain of an epic headache which he was nursing. He groggily looked up again, eyes half lidded to protect his mind as well as possible while allowing him to survey his surroundings. It appeared that this was the amphitheater from the Dumbledore's pensive, where prisoners of the Ministry were tried. A judge spoke, only bits of which Harry heard, for the ache in his head was bothering him fiercely. Questions of mental health, the Dursley's complete defenselessness, and other incriminating mutters passed Harry's throbbing ears.

When his head cleared enough for him to glance up, he would have recoiled had he not been bound. The animosity in the air was palpable, emanating from the steely gazes of the onlookers. He quickly scanned the room, searching for a familiar face, yet even though several he did find, no comfort was presented. His friends, the entire DA, and sundry other Hogwarts students were clumped towards the middle of the seating, their emotions ranging from shocked and hurt to angry and revengeful. Something snapped in Harry then, a bond he had always had with his friends, and it hurt him. His eyes found those of Albus Dumbledore, his long time mentor, and found nothing in that gaze but remorse and sorrow.

Harry was not aware of much of the rest of the trial. He was not allowed a trial under veritaserum, in fact, he was not allowed to testify at all. The next morning he was dragged from his cell the an apparation point and brought to the desolate prison which he now inhabited.

End Flashback

The dementor shuffled away and Harry was left with only his hollow memories and lukewarm gruel. He sighed and dug in, his hunger winning out over his dignity, as always. Harry Potter was, after all, a survivor.

He was just finishing up his bland meal when something out of the ordinary happened. Harry knew his schedule. He experienced his worst memories five times a day, no more, no less. It was very organized and the cycle of emotions came and went with the sun, and was nearly as constant. In other words, the dementors tortured him, but he was able to steel himself to it because he knew when it was coming. In the mornings he was tormented before breakfast, and when the guards came to collect his plates. They came only once in the afternoons, as his lunch of hard bread was not deemed worthy of a plate; it was just tossed on the ground, and the dementors also came before and after dinner. Five times each day, as routine as anything. What surprised Harry was that it looked like today there would be no more of his torture for the rest of the day.

His reasoning for this stood before him in the form of a very confused dementor. It seemed not to be able to sense him, and Harry certainly couldn't feel it. The dementor cocked its head to the side, and sniffed. A sniff like that was enough to bring a bull of a man to his knees, but Harry was not affected. He sat down on his pallet, pondering the occurrence, as the dementor rushed off to report a missing prisoner.

Five minutes later, a fat and panting doughnut munching auror guard came back with the dementor to examine the cell and stared at Harry. He then threw a tantrum at the dementor, something about damn cloak shits and their tricks. The dementor in turn got more and more menacing, eventually enough so to frighten the guard, who proceeded to talk in a much more civil tone. It seemed that the dementor was communicating telepathicly with the guard, who otherwise would have been arguing with himself and looked like a fool.

It seemed that only he was able to see Harry and he was dead set on proving to the dementor the existence of his charge. He became so impassioned that he fumbled about in his pocket and pulled out a large key loop. His shaking hands then selected the right key and put it inside of Harry's lock. the rusty iron squeaked and turned, the magical wards securing Harry dissipated.

The guard pointed at Harry and told the dementor to feel Harry, as he would certainly exist if he could be felt, which was the secondary of the dementor's two senses. This first, of course, was the ability to feel and feed off of the emotions of a human being. The dementor's outreached hand came towards Harry and...went right through. The guard was dumbfounded and the dementor was angry. It turned on the guard and lifted it up to its face.

Harry didn't see anymore of this as he was busy taking advantage of his good luck. As a survivor, he knew that in desperate circumstances, once in a million chances didn't happen twice.

He ran out of the cell and down the stairs. The prison was a blur as Harry ran so fast he could barely see, the wind whipping into his eyes. Unfortunately, (or perhaps fortunately) as he was running so fast, he was unable to stop as a prisoner threw something into the hall and Harry ran straight into it.

A jerk behind his navel, a whirl of colors, the smell of pine and the hoot of an owl and Harry knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: In my world, accidental magic occurs in the form of regular spells but performed wandlessly. ie: when Harry blew up his Aunt that was really an engorgement charm. I know this does not follow with the books, but it is my interpretation. The funny part is, I don't even like mushrooms.

Spinning trees. Many many spinning trees that made his head hurt. They were pine, and was that sap dripping onto his nose? Harry rushed into a sitting position and regretted the fast movement immediately, his head pounding with enough force to crush the very rock he was sitting on.

Wait, rock? Not stone? He looked down and found that he was indeed on a large boulder, not the rough cobblestones that made up the floor of Azkaban prison. His heart filled with joy, or at least as much joy can come when your head is pounding. He was free, and somewhere in the woods, where they had boulders and pine trees. He blinked a couple times and managed to somewhat clear his vision. It seemed that he had lost his glasses somewhere along the trip and his vision remained clouded despite his blinking.

He stood up, careful to feel his way around and discovered that he was at the base of a mountain, a rather large one at that. It seems that it is the nature of humans to climb things even when there is no logical reason to do so, perhaps to see more of the surrounding terrain (as the phenomena is often justified by), but more likely it is so that we can feel as if we have accomplished something. Thus in Harry's mind he had to accomplish something now that he was out of jail, and set out climbing the mountain. Wandless and nearly sightless, the fledgling wizard set out climbing.

He stumbled often at first, earning himself several skinned and bloody knees, but after a short while of climbing, something changed. He did not regain his eyesight, it was different. He just knew where the boulders were; where the roots were; where the nesting birds were. The mountain became alive to him and he could feel it inside of him, a compass guiding his actions.

Eventually he crested a hill and found that he had nearly reached the peak. Looking back he found that he could finally survey his surroundings, if he had had his eyesight. As it was all he saw was a lush blur of greens and blues. He sighed and turned around. What he felt to be before him was interesting, very interesting.

The same awareness that aided his passage up the rocky mountain was now alerting him that before him was a deep fissure in the rock which extended upwards and was the peak of the mountain. The fissure itself was narrow in width but rose to nearly the entire height of the crowning rock of the mountain: a good thirty to forty feet. He squared his shoulders and stepped inside.

He was immediately rendered breathless as he entered the cavern. It was not the physical appearance of the cavern, nor was it filled with anything rare or valuable, but it was as if the air were alive. He felt himself grow breathless and energized, despite still feeling the aftereffects of his long climb. He glanced around, expecting to at any moment find some incredible magical device causing this feeling, to no avail. The cavern itself was rather barren in fact, perhaps 15 feet deep and 10 feet high. It was cozy but not snug, roomy but not...cavernous bad joke, I'm sorry. It felt like home, in a strange sense.

He sighed and sat down on the moss covered floor, sinking into the spongy plant. He sighed as the pressure was released from his tired feet, making them feel weightless. His stomach gurgled. He looked down and, while not seeing any physical change in his stomach, felt a pang of hunger appear inside of him. He sighed again and stood again, putting the weight again on his tired feet, and headed out. Revitalized by the energies of his cavern, he set out in search of food, not really knowing what to look for.

He set out walking on a game trail, most likely made by a deer or large creature of the sort, using his new type of feeling to search around him. He found that something had to be in his line of sight for him to 'feel' its presence, and proceeded to swing his head back and forth in an attempt to sense as much as possible. He just ended up dizzy and decided to concentrate on his left side on the way out, and the right side on the way back in. After a short time walking he discovered a patch of mushrooms and decided to leave them, lest they be poisonous. He moved on, not really finding anything of interest.

A flash of movement permeated his feeling and he threw up his hands. It were as if he was hit square in the chest with a sheet of glass the size of his body, and he was tossed backwards. Slow to get up, he shook his head to clear it and looked for what had hit him. He found a tree had fallen on him from his side. This in itself was not the surprising bit though: it had fallen on top of him but the section set to pummel him had been knocked out of the trunk, as if by a giant hammer, and lay strewn in small chunks on the ground around him.

He thanked all he had ever known that he had chosen that moment to do some accidental magic, though he wasn't really sure what spell he had done. A bludgeoning spell surely wouldn't have taken out so large a chunk of the massive tree. he walked around the tree, inspecting it, and was rewarded with a rare treat. He recognized something growing on the bark he had never tasted himself, but saw routinely in his youth. When serving his relatives, he often was required to grill shiitake mushrooms, and had always wanted to try one. It seemed now was his chance, as he had encountered a tree covered with them.

He picked off as many as would fit in the pockets of his tattered prison robes and headed back, not bothering to scan the other side for food. In his excitement over the mushrooms he had completely forgotten to think what spell he had used.

When he returned to his cave, he sank back gratefully into the moss carpeting and spent 15 minutes or so in perfect contentment munching away on his mushrooms. When he finished he sat there thinking about his predicament. He would have to look around tomorrow to see where he really was. But now, sitting there on the comfortable moss, he felt happy knowing he was well fed and comfortable. He felt the days events catching up to him as the fiery sun sank below the horizon and his eyelids drooped. He lay down on the moss, curling into a peaceful ball and fell asleep.


End file.
